


Collision Course

by farfetched



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farfetched/pseuds/farfetched
Summary: Tango is a police interrogator at Samwell, where the main source of crime is the local gang, known as the LAX bros. Whiskey, pulled in by mistake, meets him across a screen, and although Tango would deny it, both of them are interested in the other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on my tumblr, at: http://silverliningslurk.tumblr.com/post/151163144676/collision-course
> 
> Warning for mentions mostly of violence and guns. Nothing graphic here.

Tango looks up when the door opens, and stands. Always be polite. Sometimes people are stunned by it, and let out more than they would have. It at least gives him time to get a read on them, trying to decipher motives, possible other crimes, personality, guilt. 

The man who is pushed in by Dex, handcuffed, is barely a man at all. He barely even looks old enough to be out of college, and a similar age to Tango himself. He wears his hair as many people their age do, shaved sides with longer hair on top, and it's clear it was gelled earlier, but has fallen into a tousled mess with the altercation. Tanned skin. Hazel eyes, watching him calculatingly. He's wearing a hoodie and black jeans, a logo on his top that Tango doesn't recognise, and a tattoo on his wrist. 

Mistake. Tattoos are easily identifiable, and hard to copy. To have one in such an obvious place as well, is asking for trouble. Tango doesn't even need to see what it is to know that. 

Because now it doesn't matter if he changes his hair, or his clothes; if that tattoo is on show, they'll know it's him. 

Tango pushes it out of mind, and smiles. He doesn't hold his hand out, but that's normal. There is a screen between them, after all. 

"You look younger than the usual LAX bro." Tango comments, the first thing into his mind. It helps him get a feed on them, how they react, what they do in unexpected situations. 

He raises an eyebrow.   
"You look younger than the typical interrogator." He shoots back, and Dex snorts from where he stands in the corner of the room, watching. The man crosses his arms, remains standing, despite the seat in front of him. Dex looks ready to push him into it, but Tango gives him a look. 

"Do you know many interrogators? Personal experience?" He questions, and the man furrows his eyebrows, gaze flitting away for just a moment, long enough to register it as embarrassment. Probably from TV shows. Tango has had such comments before; still, he continues on regardless. "Well, it's true. Would you like to sit down? Or give me your name?" He asks quietly. 

He gets stared at for a long moment, both by the man and Dex. He ignores it. He knows he's not normal. 

"You already have me in handcuffs, so I guess I'd better, right?" He remarks snidely, but shuffles forwards to sit. Tango makes sure not to sit down before him, and watches the man lean back in his chair. All this is recorded, so he doesn't need to make many notes; he can dedicate his minimal time to properly engaging with them. "I'll give you my name if you give me yours." He offers. Tango blinks. He's not quite used to people being so forward, and there's an odd glint in the man's eye; he's not sure if it's dangerous or alluring. Either way, Tango thinks he is best avoiding this man. 

"I'm known as Tango." He words carefully, but the man catches it. The evasiveness. He wouldn't mind giving his name out, but they've told him not to, and it could be used as a weapon against them if he got caught. They don't trust that he wouldn't talk, he doesn't trust that they'd come find him. He's fairly new here, after all, and not overly well liked. He asked too many questions when he first arrived, inane ones to cover his nervousness, and caught on to too many hidden secrets for people to like him. Dex seems alright with him, Nursey tolerates him most of the time, and Bitty tries his best, but almost everyone else avoids him. 

The man smirks.   
"Code names. Cute. Well, two can play at that. Or rather, it takes two to tango...?" 

Tango is genuinely unsure if he's being obtuse, is flirting, or is just trying to get under his skin. Either way, the latter is definitely happening. 

"Then you can refer to me as... Whiskey." He states firmly, crossing his arms the best he can in handcuffs. Dex looks about ready to burst into laughter. Usually by now he's moved onto the crime they were brought in for, and has gotten a name, contact, and is starting on motives. So-called 'Whiskey' has thrown him. 

He can't let him. He smiles tightly, clicks the pen he carries around with him idly to give him a moment to get back on track.   
"So, Mr... 'Whiskey'." He doesn't like to mention that he saw his name earlier. If he wasn't so awful with them, he'd remember it. He just has mental blocks on names, hence why a lot of the station simply go by their nicknames for him. He couldn't have even said what Dex's full name was, aside from having 'dex' as a syllable somewhere. "Could you give me a bit more information about why you're here?" 

Whiskey frowns.   
"I'm not part of the... that gang." 

The gang he refers to is the most notorious one in the area, referred to by many as the LAX gang, its members often being called 'bros' for some reason. Tango isn't sure where it originated. Possibly from Shitty, one of their senior officers. He seemed to have a personal vendetta against them that no one ever questioned. 

Apart from Tango.   
Tango is not always very good at people, especially if there isn't a screen between them and a mission for information. 

"Excuse me for asking, but you were caught taking part in a raid on a shop with other, known, members?" It's not a question. He knows it, from the file he read. Whiskey was the only one caught, the others managing to escape, and Tango wonders if he was used somewhat as bait. It's been known to happen before. 

Whiskey sighs dramatically.   
"Wrong time wrong place?" He tries, but he's smirking. 

"CCTV footage shows you conversing with them in a non-hostile manner." Tango explains, and Whiskey shrugs. 

"I'm not part of it. I don't want to be. I just have... unfortunate connections."   
"Unfortunate connections?" Tango parrots. Whiskey smirks.   
"Come on, you're an interrogator. Aren't you supposed to force information out of me?" 

"Only if required. It's really not very good for a working relationship. Would you rather I used water boarding?" Whiskey looks genuinely surprised, and maybe a little scared, as he scrabbles to back track. It makes Tango feel more secure when he continues. "Torture is not at all advocated in Samwell. I wouldn't use it even if it were." 

"Why?" Whiskey questions.   
"I thought I was supposed to be the one asking questions?" He murmurs to himself. "It's ineffective. Exchanges of information are much more useful, less time consuming, and far less brutal." 

"I see." Whiskey says, seeming to think about it. "Good to know. So. Information." He prompts, and Tango clicks back into professional mode, pushing aside the irritation that it ever slipped. He's got time for confusion later. 

So he spends a solid hour hashing out details with Whiskey, strangely compliant. Word from the officers who brought him in was that he was sultry, spitting venom and refusing to go quietly, just tipping to the point of violence with one of their more stubborn officers. Tango has seen very little of that behaviour, and he's puzzled. 

They have most of the information Whiskey gives them, but a few useful gems emerge. Dex starts getting bored about ten minutes in, clearly tuning out, his eyes going glazed. Tango barely notices, questioning everything he can get away with, filing all the information in the mental folder he has on the gang, and he'll add it to the physical folder once he's done. 

Whiskey, for the most part, just seems more interested in him and the process than worried about the outcome. It's surprising to find someone who, while claiming their innocence – despite some decent evidence – does not seem anxious to get the handcuffs off. 

"So. Exchange of information." Whiskey brings up again when Tango announces that they've run out of time. He notices Dex's eyes slide back into focus and drift back to Whiskey. 

"As you've been compliant with my questioning, it should be a relatively light punishment. You've given us some useful information." He says, expecting him to just nod. 

"I want the LAX bros to go down as much as you do." Whiskey says instead, catching Tango out. 

"What?" He can't help but exclaim, and feels a flash of embarrassment when he sees Whiskey smirk. 

"Why did you think I gave you all that information? If you look closely at the CCTV footage, you'll see it's not me. Close, but no tattoo. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time." He reveals, waving his wrist in his direction, and Tango has the unpleasant sensation like the floor has disappeared under him. How did he not catch that? 

He knows that his surprise shows on his face. Whiskey leans back in his chair, and smirks. Dex is staring at him in sheer amazement. 

"I said I had unfortunate connections. Well, they refuse to leave, and I'd rather they were in jail than dead, I decided." 

Tango thinks he recalls seeing something about a brother in the relevant file. 

"So offer me something good." Whiskey says, utterly at ease, and Tango doesn't know why he says it. 

"You could become an informant for us." 

Dex starts, staring at him now in horror. Whiskey blinks, stunned, but then his lip curls upwards just slightly. 

"Now I'm interested. Go on." 

And so Tango, despite his better interests, recruits the man known to him only as Whiskey as an informant who'll work his way into the LAX bros and help undo them from the inside. For his own safety, Tango tells him to report to Dex, which the officer chews him out for afterwards, but he didn't have another option. He's got to keep it as quiet as possible, and he's the only one who looks at the tapes most often, so no one other than Dex has to know. 

Whiskey was right. It wasn't him on the CCTV, and by the end of the day, he walks free, only a promise made in an interrogation room making him do anything. 

Tango feels unsettled for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Tony." 

At his whispered name in his ear, Tango turns. Finds himself face to face with Whiskey, smirking, and far too close behind him in the queue to the fast food place. 

"What do you want?" He asks, the first thing into his mind. Whiskey's smirk disappears. 

"Hey, if you're going to be like-"   
"To eat. I'm not talking here." Tango says, his mind clicking into something more sensible, and thus saving himself the embarrassment. Whiskey looks surprised. 

"Cheeseburger." He comments, and remains quiet as Tango waits, orders and waits. 

They move to a bench against a wall, busy enough to cover him, but not so busy as to be overheard. 

"How did you find that?" Tango asked, forgetting himself. Never confirm anything. 

"So I'm right then."   
Tango curses, mentally. Whiskey shrugs, bemused and likely aware that he's not supposed to know. "It's not difficult when you know how." 

Tango suspects it not to be completely legal, and also knows he's not going to get any more information about it. He's not sure he wants to know. He changes tack.

"Okay, but _why_ did you find it out?" He asks, genuinely curious. Whiskey has no business dealing with him anymore, unless he gets involved in another crime. He's supposed to contact Dex with any information he has, and although Tango is pretty unassuming, they should probably not be seen together if either of them wants to stay out of trouble. The LAX bros are not known for their leniency. 

Whiskey crosses his arms, sits back, and thinks about it for a moment. 

"I could say I didn't want to contact William Poindexter directly..." He starts, and it takes Tango a shameful moment to recognise Dex's full name, and even longer to realise that Whiskey probably has a terrifying amount of information on the Samwell unit. "Or just that I wanted to know more, since nobody told me anything..." 

"But?" He peers at Whiskey, who raises his eyebrows, lips tilting up into something resembling a smirk. Tango recalls thinking that he was dangerous, and nothing about this encounter has changed this opinion. Why he's not running, Tango doesn't know. 

"But I'm intrigued. I found your name, but nothing else. And I'd rather report to you. Poindexter seems not to like me." 

"You scratched Wicks up. He needed stitches." Tango points out. Why isn't he running? 

"He deserved it. He just assumed I was involved because I 'looked like a gang member'. He even admitted it." Whiskey replied, surprisingly at ease with this. 

"Wicks isn't really very thoughtful. He likes to take a direct approach..." Tango says reluctantly, utterly befuddled by his utter lack of worry. Just because Whiskey wasn't caught on the CCTV as involved, doesn't mean he wasn't. He could easily be playing them. He'd hoped, by giving it over to Dex, that it'd take him out of the equation, that it would leave him uninvolved. 

Why is Whiskey interested in him? He wouldn't have considered himself that interesting. There's nothing to him. He asks questions to fill the void that is him, invisible, unknowable. 

"Direct approach. Alright. I'll take your word for it." Whiskey comments, sounding utterly unremorseful. "What's wrong with reporting to you? You'd get more information." 

Tango blinks, unsure at the implication. He did horrifically in his questioning a few days ago. He'd barely have gotten any information if Whiskey hadn't wanted to give it. Tango had said he could be an informant, and given responsibility over to Dex. 

"But why?" 

Whiskey smirks at him, but his eyes are pleading. Hopeful. 

"I'm intrigued, Tony." 

Tango should be running. Should be running as far as possible. Has no reason to advance further. They don't need an informant, although it would be useful. Whiskey is a total unknown. 

Tango should refuse. 

Instead, he smiles wryly, and replies. 

"Tango's not a code name. It's a nickname, and I much prefer it." 

The way Whiskey smiles at him, Tango feels like he has, in one fell swoop, won and lost.

* * *

Whiskey has two phones. 

One for actual informant activity. He says it's easier to hide an entire phone than a thread of a conversation on another, and Tango agrees. He passes the information through to Dex, or subtly feeds it into the system, careful not to let anyone else know he's involved. He's way overstepping the mark, giving his personal number to a potential criminal, and recruiting him as an informant, a double agent. He's endangering Whiskey, but then he feels like it would have happened regardless. At least this way, Whiskey is working for them. 

And one for everything else. 

Tango isn't sure why it was ever necessary, but it makes him happy. Small updates about his life, how it's going, information that can't be passed on or simply isn't very useful. Random thoughts. Jokes. 

Questions. Whiskey wants to know about him. 

And by the time three months is over, Whiskey is in the LAX bro gang, regularly getting valuable information on their planned heists, covering his tracks, and knows Tango better than any of his colleagues. 

They have a routine. Every Wednesday, they meet up for lunch, chattering about the mission, and anything else that comes to them. The first few times it was nearly solely about the gang and its inner workings, but recently, it's gotten more and more personal, the gang making fewer appearances in their conversation until Tango can't even pretend it's just a work commitment. If anyone asked, he'd just tell them he likes going outside for lunch, and they do a meal deal on Wednesdays. 

But no one questions it, and he is left free to talk to Whiskey for the whole hour, often losing track of time and coming back late. 

Tango recognises that he's falling. He knows Whiskey isn't really safe to be around, knows that he shouldn't. But Tango is lonely. His colleagues don't care that much, and they have their own lives to lead. No one needs to know how Tango goes home each day to an empty apartment, wanting to get a pet but disallowed. No one needs to know how many nightmares he gets from the crimes he's seen pictures of, heard described, heard justified. No one needs to know how he curls up in the middle of the night and cries because it feels like his heart is wrenched from his body in loneliness, sometimes. 

The problem is that Tango doesn't quite twig what he's fallen into until he's already done it, and worse, it takes someone else to point it out to him. 

"Girlfriend, Tango?" Nursey muses, leaning on the partition wall. Tango had just returned from a lunch with Whiskey, amusing him with the exploits of his cat Whiskers – apparently not where he created the nickname from, but he refuses to outright tell Tango – and leaving him feeling warm and smiling. 

Until Nursey butts in. Tango glances up in puzzlement. 

"What? Why would you think that?" He asks, genuinely confused. Nursey laughs loudly, the partition wall rocking with the force of it. 

"You come back, every Wednesday, and you smile stupidly to yourself for at least half an hour. You, my friend, are in love. If only you'd tell me who the lucky lady is." 

Nursey has no idea the strength of revelation he had just inspired in Tango. 

_Love_. 

Of course. He's fallen so far. Whiskey is all he ever thinks about, dreams about. The only one he texts, phones, contacts outside of work. 

And it's barely work anymore. Tango often just looks forwards to the texts and the meetings and the company. 

He just likes Whiskey. A lot. 

That is a whole ball of trouble he doesn't need. If people are starting to notice, they - he - needs to be more subtle. 

Nursey watches him start having this freak out, raises an eyebrow.   
"Shit, man, did you even know?" 

No, Tango thinks. He is completely and totally unprepared to fall in love with a possibly criminal double agent who is far too good looking for him and is far more interesting than him. 

Worse yet, he can't ask anyone. Whiskey isn't on the records really, and he only occasionally offloads a ton of information to Dex – if Tango is there to mediate. 

"You chill?" Nursey asks. Tango manages a weak smile as he stands, set on finding somewhere quiet and private to think this through. 

"Give me a moment." 

He gets it. He always does. No one likes him enough to help him through a meltdown, so he ends up on the roof holding his head like he's trying to keep the bounding thoughts in, when he really would rather have them out. 

He's no closer to a real solution by the time he re-emerges, but he is calmer, which is something. He resolves to forget, and compartmentalises it like he does with everything else during his working hours.

* * *

They vary their meetings a bit more after Tango informs Whiskey that Nursey had at the very least clocked his regular escapes. It becomes more random and more frequent, although this has the unfortunate side effect of even more texts from Whiskey, telling him when and where to meet. 

Tango never questions it. He trusts Whiskey now, more than he does most of his colleagues. He just goes, finds solace in warm hazel eyes, dead-pan humour and gentle teasing. It keeps him going. 

One time though, Tango wishes he could refuse. They caught a murderer, who had no remorse at all. He'd described in detail the crime, what he'd done, why he'd done it. Tango had done his job well, he's told by O'Meara, impassively and more interested in getting the guy to jail forever than Tango's mental state. He's gotten used to hiding it well, but he knows he'll be having nightmares. He does his best not to go through the day like a zombie in those awful films, does his best not to flinch at things that remind him of it. 

Pleading illness, he walks home early, more because he needs the exercise and shouldn't avoid the fear than anything else. It's always terrible, the first time home after an incident like this one. He barely sleeps sometimes, caught on every single sound being someone out to get him. 

It's then that a text comes through from Whiskey. 

_7pm, LaFontaine Cafe, 23rd street, W_

And Tango finds himself torn in two. His heart wants to see Whiskey, wants to reach out. Knows it'll settle him somewhat. But it also shies away, because he's an interrogator. He deals with this stuff all the time. He should be fine, should be able to turn it off like everything else. 

His brain tells him no. No matter how bad his apartment will feel, he can't let Whiskey see him like this. Can't tell him what happened anyway. 

He sends a vague text back, saying how he doesn't feel good, that he should probably skip. Tango feels awful about it as soon as he sends it, yearns for some comfort. Something, anything to tell him it's alright, that it will be alright. 

Barely a block later, he gets a response. 

_Somewhere closer to you? Have info, needs to get through. Sorry. Could contact Poindexter? W_

Tango sighs, scrubs at his eyes. He doesn't think that's safe, not really. 

He gives in. Texts Whiskey a place nearer his apartment, although far enough away that it won't give him away - it's a line he won't cross, letting Whiskey know where he lives precisely - and gets a simple yes a minute later. 

He feels like he might regret it.

* * *

It takes Whiskey a single minute of being in his company to question things. 

"What's wrong? You said you weren't feeling well, but this is weird." He asks, leaning closer so no one overhears. Tango gets a pleasant waft of his aftershave, but it's not nearly enough to really break through the enforced numbness. 

"Nothing. Tired. Work's stressful." Tango marvels at how all three can be true at once, but Whiskey frowns. 

"No, this is more. You're shutting me out." Whiskey points out, eyebrows furrowed. He actually looks worried. Tango already feels his walls crumbling, but he holds on the best he can, feeling like a ship in stormy seas, except instead of water, it's all the horrifying images. Looking down, he watches the liquid in his tea shift to one side, then the other, as he rolls the cup slowly. 

"I can't really talk about it, Whiskey." He murmurs. 

At the feel of a hand on his arm, he looks up. Whiskey is watching him closely. 

"You can't just keep quiet about it either." He says, truthfully, and Tango just breaks, whispering about it all. How he'd interviewed the 3rd Street murderer, for once something nothing to do with LAX. How he'd seen the images of the dead, how his morbid curiosity always got him into trouble, got him into this job he doesn't really enjoy, has never really enjoyed, he just likes knowing things but he doesn't know what else to do. 

Whiskey hugs him once he's finished, threads a hand through his hair when he shudders, and Tango feels eerily safe. 

Safe in the arms of a criminal. It should be impossible, a juxtaposition. 

But he does, and Tango thinks little more of it.

* * *

A few months later, Whiskey is heavily involved with the LAX bros. Tango knows about the brother he tried to persuade out, and is worried about. Tango knows the key members of the gang and their roles, knows more now than the rest of the police force, and gets wind of a raid. 

Dangerous, Samwell Police whispers. Dangerous and foolhardy. Not worth interfering. They'll find us out, they all say, not worth the chance of nabbing the leader in the act. 

Nobody wants to go. 

Nobody, except Tango. 

He knows it's dangerous. Knows it's stupid, foolish, has such a low chance of succeeding. But he wants it over with. He wants the LAX bros down and out, too big and powerful for their own good. 

Wants Whiskey out of it. Wants Whiskey to be safe. Doesn't regret meeting him, but regrets putting him in such an awful situation. 

Quietly, he volunteers himself, and when he hears that they're pulling out, he goes anyway. 

He's never been the cleverest. It'll be worth it if he can free Whiskey from their hold, even at the cost of himself, because he is expendable. There are many good interrogators, and it's only Samwell. He has a chance to take the gang down with him. 

The last thing he remembers is gunshots.

* * *

The last thing he remembers is gunshots. 

The first thing he hears is typing, frantic and muttering, vaguely familiar. His eyes are heavy, but he forces them open, more because he can't fall asleep and keep hearing those gunshots. He needs to get to work. Needs to ask questions he doesn't want to ask anymore. 

But it's not his bedroom ceiling above him. It's not his bed. It's a hospital, and when he tries to sit up, pain blooms in his stomach, deep and sharp and cutting. He hisses, squashes his eyes shut and wraps his arms gingerly around his middle, trying desperately to find his mental folder on what happened. But it's like it's been ransacked, and he can't find the files, flitted around, misplaced and out of order, maybe even gone. 

He's never lost files before. 

"Tango! Tango, are you alright?" 

It's very familiar. He knows it well, but if he could just put a face to that voice, he could put a name to that face and work things out. He hates being in the dark. 

With some effort, he forces one eye open as the pain starts to subside, but his vision swims, and he can barely focus. 

The face goes. Tango frowns, alone again. He's always alone. He's so fed up of loneliness. Wishes his colleagues liked him enough to be friends with him, or just liked him at all, in some cases. 

It's a useless endeavour, though. No matter where he goes, Tango is disliked, shunned. It's been the same story since the start. Too many questions, too little substance. By being interested in everything, he's interested in nothing, and he's not interesting, fills up the lack of anything else with trivia, questions and answers it turns out nobody cares for. 

He closes his eyes again. He hears murmuring, but he loses himself to sleep, drowns himself in it, and barely registers a hand wrapped around his.

* * *

All he hears is the gunshots echoing around his head, mostly. He's not really with it a lot of the time, phasing in and out of consciousness and pain, not necessarily at the same time. He vaguely recalls screaming, and a deadening numbness. He recalls heat, madness, anger, fear. He recalls soothing words in his ear, words that calmed him down, made him want to curl up closer and listen, made him want to smile, even if his facial muscles wouldn't necessarily cooperate with him. 

It takes a while for him to come around enough, and he first calls the nurse for water, because he feels parched. Once he's done that, he gingerly sits up, and re-sorts his mental file on what happened. 

A raid. Him going alone, stupidly. Gunshots. Pain, laughter, blackness. Buzzing. Flashing lights, so many flashing lights. Lightheartedness, forced. Thunder, jolting, returning, not even recalling leaving. 

No, he thinks, he doesn't remember much. Not to any coherency, but he remembers enough. Maybe he's actually dead, and all of it is scrambled in his head. 

As he sips on his second glass of water, he looks around. It's pretty plain; there is very little non-medical equipment around him, and next to nothing that isn't hospital owned. 

But. 

There are a few cards. One from Samwell Police generally, various people wishing him well. He'll read it properly later, he thinks, moving on. There's one from Bitty, and, surprisingly, Jack. Jack is virtually his singular non-family exception to the nickname rule, although Tango can't recall his end name. He's not sure how it happened; maybe Jack was just that terrifying, Tango never forgot his name. There's another from Dex, with a small inquote from Nursey saying that Dex had cried when he'd found out, which is loosely crossed out. The card is a little crumpled, like they fought over it, and Tango wants to ask so many questions. 

The last item is the one that makes him smile the most. It's a shot glass, simply. It's quite pretty, some ornate patterns on it, and just like that, Tango gets it. 

Whiskey has visited at least once. No one else would give him a shot glass, and no one else would understand the significance of it, except maybe Dex. 

He goes to reach out for it, to look closer; it's not a shop bought one, or at least not a normal commercial one. It doesn't look like something that could be bought here. But a voice stops him in its suddenness, and the warmth it incites in him. 

"Tango!" He turns, finds Whiskey out of breath, hands on his knees trying to recover, staring at him in wonder. Like he's worth looking at. 

Tango's not sure if it's true, but he likes the idea of being something Whiskey finds worth observing. 

"Whiskey!" He proclaims, glad to see he's alright. Whiskey grins, flops down into the chair, and breaths out deeply. "Are you alright?" Tango questions, which gets him a reprimanding look. 

"I'm not the one in a hospital. Shouldn't these roles be reversed if you're asking that?" He returns, shrugging his coat off onto the back of the chair. 

"You look tired." Tango explains, and gets pinned with a piercing glare, as though he's said something wrong. 

"You have no idea." Whiskey says, holding his gaze for a long moment, before leaning forwards, head falling into his hands. "Where do I start, T? You accosting the leader? You getting shot in the stomach? You having to be reanimated by the paramedics before we even get to hospital? You getting an infection and nearly dying again? How am I supposed to sleep well through all that?" Whiskey says, and Tango feels like he's not expecting an answer. Instead, he reaches across to pat him on the shoulder, and when Whiskey looks up sharply, he simply offers his hand. 

Whiskey takes it as though he's going to break.   
"And the worst thing I did? I lied." Whiskey murmurs, and Tango really isn't sure whether he's meant to hear. 

"Lied? About what?" He asks, and Whiskey snorts sardonically, his voice scratchy when he finally speaks.   
"I said I was your husband. They don't just let randoms in here. And I knew no one else would come, and I couldn't..." He trails off, eyes flitting about the room. Tango watches as a blush crawls across his face, and thinks that he shouldn't find it endearing. "I couldn't leave you alone." He whispers, finally. 

Tango squeezes his hand carefully, not wanting to upset the drip in his arm.   
"Thank you, Whiskey. I-" He catches himself before he admits to those deepest feelings. Not now. "I appreciate it. I like the shot glass." He says, not knowing what else to say, and Whiskey looks up. 

He pauses, for a moment. On a precipice. 

"My brother got it from Venezuela. One of the last trips he did before he got involved with them." He starts, falteringly. "It was always a joke. When I was really little, our dad had poured himself a shot of it, of whiskey, and I mistakenly drank it. It was just funny because I didn't even flinch, apparently, I just asked for another one. It was always our thing, you know? Find the weirdest shot glass from wherever we were, send it to each other. And then." He stops, taking a deep breath. 

Tango can't look away. He's magnetised by him, immobilised by him. Stuck in orbit, so close, but he wants a collision he doesn't know that he'll ever have. 

"I lied about being your husband, Tango. But I don't want to." 

Tango's breath sticks in his throat, his eyes going wide. Beside him, the heart monitor jumps. Whiskey looks him dead in the eye, not even smiling, serious as anything. 

"I want to be your significant other. I want to be your next of kin. I want to be the one they call if there's a problem. I want to be in your life, Tango. I don't know how to leave, but I don't want to." He says, his eyes determined; but then he sighs deeply, reluctantly pulls his hand away from Tango's, in too much shock to process it, nor react. "I get it, though. You're a police interrogator, I'm a part-time hacker. It'd never work. It's why I never said anything before, but this happened, and I hoped- I hoped maybe, it might all work out. That if you could live through all that, maybe it was a sign. That maybe you'd bring that shot glass back with you if you moved in." 

Tango blinks at him, and promptly bursts into tears. 

He can't even pinpoint the last time he'd cried of happiness. Didn't really think it possible. Whiskey looks alarmed, his eyebrows furrowed in worry, and he leans forward to check if Tango was alright. 

"Whiskey, I'd love that. Yes. A thousand times yes." He says, elated, and feels privileged for being able to watch Whiskey's face flit through shock, confusion, disbelief, and realisation, finally landing on stunned happiness. 

"Really?" He breathes, barely a question. Tango holds his hand out again, and when Whiskey takes it, gently pulls him closer into a hug, buries his face in the corner of his neck. He feels Whiskey shake with emotion, and holds on as tightly as he dares. 

"Of course. I want to really meet your cat. I want to wake up next to you. I don't care what anyone else thinks." He affirms, and Whiskey embraces him closely, careful not to disrupt any of the equipment. 

"Dear god, T, I just want you there with me." He finally says, and Tango nods. 

It's all he wants too, and for once, he thinks he might actually get it.


End file.
